The Terrible Trial of Kennedy Abrams (Treadmill II)

II

"You're fine."

Kennedy felt a hand on her back as she breathed in and out at the speed of light, refusing to call it hyperventilating. She didn't hyperventilate. She was a very put-together person. Clearly.

She had been put-together enough to kill a man.

"I'm not fine," she snapped back at Lyla, rolling her eyes as her breathing slowed, "I'm on trial for murder and I have a moron as a lawyer."

"You don't have a moron as a lawyer," her best friend sighed, "Where's Rian? She's relatively decent at talking you down."

"I didn't think you even knew what half of those words meant," Kennedy muttered through her teeth as Lyla went off to find the third member of their group. Ever since Rebecca had become a traitor for the other side, Kennedy had decided to become close with her former best friends again—she needed someone in her life who would only tell her the things she wanted to hear.

But they had seemed to become worse at doing even that—the bare minimum of being friends with Kennedy Abrams—since she had last seen them. Since she had gone to jail and gotten out on bail because her mother finally chose to care about her daughter. Her father was nowhere to be found; after the news broke about Kennedy sleeping with and then killing one of his friends, nothing she could say to him would make him forgive her.

She just wished that her brother hadn't taken his side.

"Ken? You okay?" Rian approached her with Lyla close behind, both girls exhibiting signs that they were worried about their friend, but also worried about their personal wellbeing if they got too close to her. "Lyla said you're not doing too great."

"Naturally, I'm doing a phenomenal job of sitting in my old apartment, huddled up like a hobbit under my blanket, and trying not to think about the fact that my lawyer is currently working on getting my trial moved to the state that I actually live in. I'm just spectacular, Rian. Stunning. Perfect. The same old Kennedy that you're used to living with." She rolled her eyes and tried not to think about Brianne Hotchky sitting in a room with a judge, convincing both them and the Florida judge on a video call to transfer the jurisdiction of the case to South Carolina.

She could picture it. Brianne and her co-counsel sitting in stiff chairs with high backs, Brianne's legs crossed over each other when she was nervous. Kennedy noticed that she did that. The South Carolina judge would be sitting on the stand, gavel to the side, laptop open with the image of the Florida judge coming through pixelated and fuzzy. The Florida judge would try and say something, but the connection would be bad and they'd have to wait for it to improve before Brianne could continue making her case.

The Florida judge would argue with her. They would point out that all the alleged illegal activities had taken place in Tampa, not Clemson. That they had jurisdiction over this case—this incredibly high-profile case that had been in the news for what felt like months now, but in actuality had only been days.

Brianne would pull out the point she had explained to Kennedy fifty different times, in fifty different ways; she would pull out their golden ticket to get the trial moved to Oconee County. Brianne would point out that Hank Wilcox had been one of the most influential Florida millionaires that the state had seen in decades—he had been a well-known and well-respected public speaker, a generous philanthropist, an author, a TV personality...you name it, he had done it. The jury in Tampa, Florida would be biased to find Kennedy guilty due to their close ties with the victim and their nonexistent ties with Kennedy Abrams.

And unlikely juror impartiality, in Brianne's confessed opinion, was the perfect excuse to have the case's jurisdiction moved in their favor.